I relax a little as he shifts away from me, stumbling over toward the opposite wall, where a myriad of saws sit lined on tables as if on display, the metal on the tools gleaming. An old tube TV lights up a corner, the sound of the baseball announcer’s voice buzzing softly in the background, competing against the crackle of country music over the radio.
“It’s very clean in here,” I remark, looking at the piles of wood neatly stacked along another wall. And in the center of the room—a giant two-story space with naked bulbs dangling down from the rafters—sit several pieces of furniture in various states of completion. “I always imagined a lot of sawdust in wood shops.”
“Used to be.” Strolling over to place his only hand on a giant slab of grainy wood, he murmurs, “This was going to be a beautiful coffee table. I could have made thousands selling it.”
I let out a low whistle.
He peers up at me. “Would you like me to finish it for you? It’s black walnut. Not easy to come by a piece like this.”
My eyes widen in surprise with the offer. Jack would love a coffee table like that. I open my mouth, the beginnings of “Sure!” escaping, when Ben’s voice cuts into the murkiness with a harsh, “No!” Spinning around, I find him standing just inside the door, his jaw taut with tension as his eyes dart around the space as if chasing ghosts within the shadows. Even the darkness can’t hide the ashen color of his skin.
“What’s wrong, son? Forget what this place looked like?” The resentment laced through Joshua Senior’s voice is unmistakable.
I hear Ben’s hard swallow as he steps up behind me, curling his arms over my shoulders and across my chest, hugging me to him. Almost protectively. “Come on, you little thief. I’ll let you drive, seeing as you’re hell bent on it.”
His words are teasing, but I know not to argue or joke or give him a hard time; the odd softness in his voice echoes like a shriek within these walls. “Okay.”
“What’s the rush? You haven’t been in here in, what, eight or nine years? How long has it been since the accident?” Ben’s dad slaps the wood table surface. “Don’t you want to look around? Relive some memories?”
“Joshua!” Wilma’s cry comes from the doorway and when I turn to look at her, her pale face matches Ben’s. And I see the tears. There are definite tears welling in her eyes as she looks from her husband to her son—pausing on him, a pained expression furrowing her brow—and then back to her husband. I catch the subtle nod of her head. “Why have I let this go on for so long?” I think I hear her murmur faintly as a mask of resolution slides over her face, a moment before she closes her eyes and squeezes them tight.
And glancing at her husband’s face, I believe he heard it too. I watch as whatever little spark of fury sat burning in him dies. He hangs his head and shuffles quietly past us and out the door.
Walking slowly forward to Ben and me, she reaches up to lay a hand on his cheek. “It was an accident, Benjamin. We all know that. Even he knows that, whether he wants to admit it or not.” Fresh tears find their way down Wilma’s cheek. “But everything after is all my fault.”
Ben releases me to pull Wilma’s tiny frame into his arms. “None of this was ever your fault.”
She steps away, guiding him back to me with a sad smile. “I’m just so happy to have you both here. You go enjoy yourselves. Benjamin, I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make it right.” With that, she turns and steps away, a fierce smile of determination painting her face.
And I’m left standing in the middle of this vast open space, watching a very quiet Ben stare at that old unfinished coffee table with a lost look on his face, battling something privately.
“Ben?” I call out, fighting against the shiver as I hear his name bounce off the high walls.
It seems to break him free of his trance because he turns to me and cracks a grin. “Come on. Let’s go.” The strain in his voice is unmistakable, though, and there’s certainly no twinkle in his eye.
“What happened in here?”
“Ahh . . .” His gaze drops to the ground, his lips tucking into his mouth in a tight purse. “The worst day of my life. That’s what.” He tries to cast it off with a lazy shrug.
My sneakers scrape against the concrete as I do a circle around the table, running my finger along the deeply defined grain of the wood. “It’s beautiful wood. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Reese, don’t . . .” he starts when my fingers run over a giant splotch, as if someone spilled something on the untreated wood and stained it. I look up to see the pained expression on Ben’s face.
“Come on. You’re my obnoxious, loud, insensitive Ben! I’m the melodramatic one.”
“I’m yours?” he repeats with an arched brow, though that teasing lilt is missing.
I gulp. “What’s wrong with this table?”
He strolls over, making a point of sidestepping an area on the floor instead of walking straight to me. “You remember what I told you about my dad and the things he did behind my mom’s back, right?”
I nod quietly.
Licking his lips, he studies the wood for another long moment. “Normally he’d stay away from the local bars. It’s a small town and people talk. Everyone’s up in everyone’s business. Well, one night he decided the local bar was good enough. The next morning, Mama started getting calls from friends. So-and-so’s brother-in-law or something saw him stumbling out with my football coach’s wife. I guess Coach was out of town.” Ben snorts as he shakes his hung head. “Mama was mortified. And not even for herself. She knew Coach would hear about it and she was afraid he’d take it out on me.
“When my dad pulled into the driveway that day, I guess she laid into him. Slapped him across the face. Well,” Ben grits his teeth, “he swung back. I came home a few hours later to find her hiding in her room with a broken nose and an ice pack. And when I found out what happened . . .” His mouth twists up. “I charged in here, ready to beat the hell out of him. He was already hitting the bottle again, working on that table. I was so angry, I ran at him. I shoved him. Hard.” Ben pauses to swallow, a hand running through his hair. “And then, I don’t really know how everything else happened. One second he was tumbling back, the next his arm was lying on the ground and there was blood everywhere. Jesus, Reese! The whiskey made it worse. It was pumping out of him like we were in a Quentin Tarantino movie.”
My stomach tightens with the visual he’s painting. I look at this table under a new light, seeing that stain for what it truly is.
“The idiot had removed the safety mechanisms off all the saws. Said they were a pain in the ass while he worked. He somehow hit the power switch when he fell.” Ben’s head is shaking. “I was pissed off but I never meant for that to happen, I swear. I called nine-one-one right away. He almost bled out on the way to the hospital. They weren’t able to reattach the arm.” He sighs heavily. “The one and only thing my dad was ever passionate about was carpentry. And with only one arm, he can’t do much. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything but sit in this barn and hate life.”
Ben’s hand lifts to run along a particularly dangerous-looking saw.
“Is that the one?”
His nod answers me. “He was always a cynical man. Never happy. Not one to spend much time with his kids. After the accident, he hit the bottle even harder and went into a deep depression. He hasn’t come out of it yet and he refuses to get help. He blames me for everything. For the accident, for my brothers and Elsie not coming around. But the reason none of my brothers and sister come here is because they hate his fucking guts for cheating on my mom and then hitting her. And for being a drunk. They’ve already said that they won’t step foot on this property while he’s here. And they’re angry with my mother for standing by him because she’s got it in her thick skull that this is the ‘for worse’ part of her marriage vows. Well, if you ask me, ‘worse’ is pretty damn bad.”
“Is she happy?”
“How can she be?” Bright blue eyes pierce me, his arms thrown up as if in surrender. “They sleep in separate rooms; he’s in here all day. He helps her with nothing. They live completely separately and because of him, she doesn’t get to see her kids or her grandkids. Is that what a marriage is?” He shakes his head. “And she wonders why I want nothing to do with it.”
I hazard a step forward to put a hand on his forearm. For reassurance, for comfort. For friendship.
“God.” Ben shakes his head, his nostrils flaring. “I still can’t stand the smell of cut wood. It makes me want to puke. And the sound of a saw cutting . . .” He squeezes his eyes shut as he shudders.
“Well then, come on.” I hook my arm through his and wait for those eyes to open and focus on me. I take slow steps backward, pulling him away from the dank barn and the sharp saws, the lingering memories. He lets me lead him out. “Let’s get you out of here.”